We'll Rise or Fall
by Zerabell Blackborn
Summary: AU- She never made it to Laughing City, they found her first. A story were Magneto wasn’t the only one looking to capitalize on her mutation. Newest: 'Idle' There were bloody commandos invading and they weren’t getting him. Yeah, well. So much for plan A.
1. The Horror of Reality

**Disclaimer:** I wave any rights to the X-Men universe, Marvel or the characters found therein.

**Author's Note:** This is the start of a drabble-based series revolving around the character Rouge and playing on situations found within X-Men comics, animated stories, and live action movies. WRoF will be set in an alternate universe with eventual Rogue/Wolverine romance. Unless stated otherwise all drabbles will be un-beta'd for viewing confusion. Written for the LiveJournal community 100(underscore)situations; prompt 083-Prison. 620 words.

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The Horror of Reality

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She was floating, weightless and numb. Adrift in a sea of nothingness, a tactile void created by the insane. A cage of liquid and glass, not much bigger than her abused and weary form. It was a watery grave dyed and tainted a sickly toxic green, one of five showcased in the stone and metal laboratory. They were all in line, one after the other, equally spaced on a platform. Sequestered in solitude but never alone. There were men, hazy and blurred and frosted with jade, who happily went about their business in brilliant long coats. Their excited words were muffled, drowned in the quiet echoes of the many voices that resided within. They were always with her, memories and emotions that were never hers to own.

A mask fastened over her nose and mouth provided air greedy lungs drank in defiance of her will. Thin spidery silk tubes pumped dark liquid through her veins as insulated wires attached to her skin ran to computers, keeping records she would never care about.

She wondered how long it would take. How long until she saw that smile of superiority and heard his detached voice explaining their newest experiment. How long until the broken boy with dead eyes was brought before her prison to invaded her mind. She wondered how long it would take for them to grow tired of her… How long she had to wait for an end that always seemed out of reach.

There was no way for her to know how many days or weeks had passed, no way to know how long they intended to keep her alive. She remembered a time before this hell, a time when she was back home and everything was fine, before being thrown to the street, a time before they found her in the snow.

From the corner of her eye she saw movement, quick and angry motions where last time she forced her way into the waking world there had been nothing. With effort she moved in her constricted confines, the tubes twisted and grew taunt. They pulled on her skin, pinched and tore to the point she should have felt pain and she found herself cursing their drugs once more. It was a pain she would have welcomed, something that would have allowed her to focus on beyond the look of abject horror and panic on the face of the young girl beside her.

It was the girl's expression that gave her away, told any who read it just how new and untried the poor creature truly was.

A shiny toy for a greedy devil dressed in military issued fatigues. She stared, fascinated by the play on the young girl's face. Had she looked like that- so betrayed and desperate, so lost? Doubtful, by the time they took her down she had absorbed several of his soldiers and knew the horrors to come. They worked in hatred and anger, advocating peace for humanity by destroying those that were different. A philosophy that may have worked in theory, for some, but would always meet with resistance in practice.

Well, at least now she knew the reason behind such furious activity gripping the laboratory's various scientists. If the girl didn't stop struggling not only would they introduce a powerful sedative, but _he_ would be called.

_He_. And it didn't truly matter which _he_ came through the door. All three should be avoided whether clothed in black and green and grey, bounded in a wheel-chair, or encased in white.

In vein she tried to catch the girl's eye, but the girl was either unable to understand her or lost inside the horror of reality…

And then, well then it was to late.

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ETA: updated 14/12/08.


	2. Value of Hate

**Disclaimer:** I wave any rights to the X-Men universe, Marvel or the characters found therein.

**Author's Note:** Written for the LiveJournal community 100(underscore)situations; prompt 085-Hate. 1050 words.

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Value of Hate

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In her world of haze and drugged confusion she noticed his shadow first. It had a particular shape, a subtle pattern all his own. Harsh and dark and cold. She didn't need to look for his steps were precise, features meticulous, his eyes always so alive with harmful intent. Both sane and unstable this man. A believer. A dangerous hero in a delusional world that touched upon reality. She knew why he was here, knew it was for the frightened young girl still struggling beside her. Knew that the relief untainted by guilt couldn't be anything but wrong, knew that the girl's panic should be hers as well.

At the very least, shouldn't there be pity? This girl, it could be her.

But she had been his prisoner far too long, seen many such as this girl come and go. They were carted in and out of the cold white room like ripened fruit. So pretty in their fragility to look upon for the few fleeting moments of time before their obvious decay.

No, she had no more pity. Not for anyone. Churning deep within was cold fury, frozen and unchanging it curled around her body like a brush fire. It kept her alive when all the others fell broken to his feet in submission or death. It was this hatred that saves her life visit after visit. An unspoken challenge presented to the master of this world. She would fight; fight him, fight this situation to her last. And the last dragged on, seemingly into an eternity of pain, for it was her rebellion that pleased and amused him so. Her rebellion that challenged him. A battle of wills between the two and neither would admit defeat.

There were days she welcomed death, of course. Days she almost felt it was within her to begged for it. She wanted it, would crave it when the pain became to much and her mind became so fractured she could feel the splinters. It would be an end and she would no longer be forced to bare with this almost impossible situation.

But then she would hear_ him_ above the others' cries and would realize she wanted his death with a far greater intensity.

There was a lesion early on that taught her the value of hate. One she was exposed to in the Before, one she felt responsible for her relative safety. Depression and fear would never be the instruments she could shape for survival here. Frustration and panic could be used against her. Patience came and went but it was the cold hatred she would absorb and reflect back to her captors. A lesion she could only think would benefit the young one beside.

Yes, hate was powerful enough override the desire for an easy out. It would see her though this hell. It would see carry her onto revenge.

It consumed more than just her days, this emotion. It forced the Other's away with visions of the one in control. Of being the one on the outside and watching as the ones who did this withered in this watery cage. Of being the one to stand there with the smug look of superiority and dangle the keys to freedom before the noses. Of being the one to taunt her prey with news from outside, with something as innocent as a weather report or a dish of food so hot she would need to blow on the spoon.

It had been so long, so very long since Before. When she was alone, back in the dry cell of grey, and hate allowed another emotion to surface she would think of the things when she escaped. All the things she would enjoy once more. There was a list, one she would drag out in the darkness and rearrange when the hunger became too much.

There was the brightness of the sun, the untainted color of her surroundings as she would lay upon a grassy field as her skin heated. It would be hot, sweltering; there would be the smell of baking earth underneath her and sun lotion. She see it, there was always the old tree with Spanish Moss she used to play in from the commune before her Aunt took her, the glossy pages of a magazine flirting with the breeze at the edge of her blanket and a tall glass of sweetened ice tea an arm's reach away.

And then sometimes thoughts of comfort would give way to those materialistic in nature. It had been so very long since she was able to ware anything besides the few strategically placed bits of cloth cold and callous officers forced on her with gloved hands. She would think of her aborted trip into Candia and the excitement of seeing her first snow. There would be trunks of clothes, soft fabrics, long and short, thick and thin. Many layers to combat the cold she was already feeling.

She could never decide on her first meal, if it should be breakfast, dinner or supper. Perhaps a mixture of all three. Whatever it was, she knew there were going to be biscuits. Buttermilk. With gravy. It's what she remembered -and missed- most about Aunt Carrie's somewhat useless attempts at home cooking. A recipe given to them by their neighbor. It was the biscuits she only allowed herself to think of from time to time when grey slop was forced under a locked door in the dry-cell.

It had been ages since she was able to breath in air without the taint of artificial machines and antiseptics. Years since she was able to experience freed. She longed for escape, for control, for freedom… and _he_ knew it. Used it. Taunted her with clever words sharpened and honed to do the most damage. She took it, survive when countless others crumbled before him. She wasn't the most interesting captive they held, wasn't the smartest or toughest. She knew she wasn't the sanest. But she was one of the few with a determination that pressed into the boundaries of obsession.

She would get what she wanted in the end and he would have nothing. That was just how it was going to end, behind the mask she smiled. It matched his own.

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ETA: updated 14/12/08


	3. Frailty

**Disclaimer:** I wave any rights to the X-Men universe, Marvel or the characters found therein.

**Author's Note:** Written for the LiveJournal community 100(underscore)situations; prompt 65-Scream. 1080 words.

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Frailty

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_He_ was smiling now, eyes glazing with pleasure. Both of them, the man in fatigues and the one in a lab coat. Stryker arrived first, Palance not far behind. The Doctor's gestures were energetic and as telling as any verbal conformation. They were speaking of the recently recorded data, minute details digitally rendered with bulky computers and steely instruments spread throughout the room. Pages of data that classified the mutants, tracked them by chart and graph.

They finished talking and moved closer, eyes falling to their newest acquisition. The Colonel's lips curled with cruel satisfaction while the Doctor's were molded in sadistic curiosity.

Over the days, weeks, months, years she had been trapped underground at their mercy her body changed. Adapted. She was built for it; survival. A genetic kink that would ensure she lived despite her environment. Despite _him_.

She became a spectator, watching from the sidelines as they played with the young girl. Taunted with whispers she would have no choice but to listen to. The mask held secure over the mutant's face would ensure this torture, their masculine voices would drone on in comforting tones as each outlined the various ways they would experiment on such vulnerable prey. That young, poor misfortunate girl. Watched as her neighbor started to struggle again with static, choppy movements as the small body bucked within the cylinder cage. Fighting the inevitable, clawing at the glass as if trying to break free.

She almost snorted at the futile motion. Clueless child. Innocent child. She had clearly never been hunted, never been hurt in the manner that was to be her future. She could almost watch as lost hope dulled blue eyes.

Well that didn't take long.

It was a cold and selfish thought driven by the disappointment and dread that washed over her as the Colonel glanced her way, as the Doctor smiled. Perhaps it was a thought they could read, the reason they turned on her, one monster recognizing another.

And that was what she was becoming; a twisted image of the person she had once been. Changing because of him. Like them. Self-centered, apathetic to all that fell short of her immediate desire, a consuming obsession with ends and means and justification. Their pain. Her freedom. Escape, entrapment. Life, death. She was broken, fractured, her mind splintering, slowly moving in the wake of an explosion of color. But it wasn't the revenge she sought, it wasn't her pain she felt. That's when it started to make sense. As much as it always did.

This... It was hers; it was another's. The young girl cried out, but so did she. It swam before her eyes, mercurial images and thoughts and memories that she never carried. That she never experienced, that she was now.

Dusk. It had a color, a taste, a sent she would have never discovered without the separation from the outside world. It flickered, the dieing heart of a distant day. A bird hovered in the sky, a gray storm hovering at the edges ready to move in, a banshee's cry in the distance, endless green. Black sheep, lithe movements of muscle as hooves marched out a tune on beaten soil, a woman's face, a man's back. Hello. Goodbye. Powerful words decimating the skeletal structure of a weathered barn, a cry, a shout. Accusations, blame, guilt, abandonment. Shock, quaking ground, falling leaves. Warm bread, a breeze cool and crisp, the sent of heather and wild grass, tang, salt, blood. New lands, same looks. Cold eyes, sharp and wary. A mansion, a wheelchair, beds in a row and girls mindlessly smiling. Welcoming all the while pushing away. Old, new, same, different. Chaos, men in black, guns. Helplessness. Fear. Panic. Screaming. Siryn. Alarms. Darkness.

There was a duality when she next opened her eyes. The figures sharpened and blurred, both larger and smaller than she remembered. The room had sifted, it remained the same. The hazy green that veiled her world, a hue she had categorized what seemed like ages ago as sick and putrid had changed. It was darker, dulled in the light. Clouded. Turning brown. It was blood she realized; her blood. No. It was their blood. She must have screamed, bucked against her restraints and clawed at the tubes that had been within her arms.

It wasn't just the skin anymore. Oh no, she had truly evolved into a creature far more deadlier than she ever thought possible. Because of _him_. The Doctor's discoveries. The Colonel's experiments. They needn't strap her body to a table anymore, wouldn't bother to force direct contact between prisoners for any other reason than pure entertainment. It was in the blood now. Perhaps it had always been. A transfusions of memories.

Of power.

She fixed her eyes to the other, the young girl. She would recognize the red hair and blue eyes as her own, something within her flitted about in fear and wonder. A mirror image that would never truly be, and she knew how to do it. Saw the patterns clearer than the one before her had. It wouldn't take much. It was triggered by a feeling, a hum to stroke an itch that was constant in her throat. She could feel it, this new sensation, while the girl had been desensitized at it's continued development. A scream, a pitch that would echo and pulse, that could shatter the cage. The girl had tried, she knew that now. Fought the monster taunting her, lost because she didn't know how to use what she thought uncontrollable.

Unable to take the horror, the pleading look thrown her way by the girl she turned back to the men. Ignored the way they seemed to ignite fresh terror long thought buried in anger. Focused instead on the itching, the tickling at the base of her throat, not letting herself be distracted with satisfaction as comprehension tightened the Colonel's features at the Doctor's raised brow.

She drew in a breath of sterilized air, long since used to the metallic taste of processed oxygen. She concentrated; screamed. The mask designated and crumbled like brittle paper in the wake of fire. Felt the liquid cage quake as she watched with fascination the glass fracturing in a beautiful pattern that spelled freedom.

The Colonel stepped back, fear showing on aged features. There was chaotic movement, frantic shouts. An alarmed sounded.

She was free.

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ETA: updated 14/12/08


	4. A Plan Revised

**Disclaimer:** I wave any rights to the X-Men universe, Marvel or the characters found therein.

**Author's Note:** Written for the LiveJournal community 100(underscore)situations; prompt 45-Animal. 1450 words.

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A Plan Revised

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Liquid seeped out from the cage, tumbled out like a mountain river meeting the edge of a cliff. It fell, gained in speed until there was no more. In the harsh spotlight it glinted and gleamed with the broken pieces of glass. The cage broken, shattered under the pressure of what it was built to keep safe within; without.

Greedy lungs savored cold unrefined air, a different scent she thought might have been forever denied. Tendrils of smoke made their way across the room from fried circuitry and faulty planning, lights flashed and sound echoed. On shaking legs she stood, ignoring the weak and too-heavy sensation which begged for rest in the reintroduction of gravity. Chaotic shouts by frightened scientists and the ever increasing slap of rubber on concrete as soldiers ran towards the prison break pressed into her flesh. The sound had texture - a color, and she understood the duality of her vision a little better.

Blurred and hazy bands of red bounced off the walls, small specks of yellow and blue rippled; the soldiers were there. A pathetic little army hiding behind Five-seveNs. She could remember the sound of the semi-automatic gun upon firing, could almost recall the exact weight in her hand, the kick to a shot. All were aimed on her with steady hands, their leader standing steadily behind the protective line their bodies provided. He took a breath to speak, his insulting command never voiced for she took one as well.

She could see it this time, the sound, the scream. Focused to a hard edge it was the same color of the hottest flame, it threw the soldiers to the wall. Most died insistently while an unlucky few slumped to the ground, blood trickling from ears and nose as they withered in agony. She took a step, steadier now than she could ever remember being, another and another until she stood before one still alive. He was young, moments from dieing as blood vessels continued to swell and split, shorter and less bulky in form than his companions had been.

There was no pity, no remorse in her actions as she bent to pick up the fallen weapon. She searched his body for extra ammo, preparing and planning for the future when this new power left her. Specially prepared tranquilizers, presented in the neat package of a magazine, fashioned to clip on his belt. They weren't ideal, but they would do. Methodically she stripped him, easily evading his weak attempts to fend her off as she took his clothes for her own. The gloves he wore in an effort to escape the threat she possessed granted her protection from his last pain filled moments.

Straitening she finally allowed herself to acknowledge what she had suspected, neither the Doctor's nor the Colonel's body were not among those fallen before her. She could check each face, decided against it as an unnamed clock started a countdown she could feel but not hear. How like the bastards to slink away leaving those under their command to her mercy. She didn't regret her lack of it. Mercy had faded quicker than pity or fear, knew she would not ask forgiveness for her actions, would not give it for theirs.

Tugging the rough fabric of the military issued uniform absently she turned and frowned. That girl was staring at her with a mixture of horror and interest and helplessness that made her want to lash out. At the young girl, at the dead or dieing soldiers fallen at her feet, at Stryker.

_Stryker_.

She would find him. In this fortress of concrete there were many places he could hide, but not for long. She would find him, run his maze of hallways and fight his army. She had been separated from life, forced to live like an animal, reduced to an existence even lower than the average lab rat. Oh yes. Then, she would go after the Doctor, after Palance.

Placing the Five-seveN in her pilfered holster she turned her head once more, towards the child and her unsuspecting savior. Deliberated for a moment before walking towards the watery cage, feet slapping on the wet concrete underneath. Justice and vengeance were lines drawn apart, but here in this moment, she considered them one. The girl had been captured and dragged into this white room, destined by a man who considered himself god to become a pawn. Easily discarded, misused once her purpose was fulfilled. His pawn had become her knight, with the child's placement she herself had been able to move forward and jump aside. An unusual maneuver on a normally straightforward board.

She passed the Child, a girl she both was and was not, to the cowering scientist -not the Doctor, no, sadly not- cowering behind, the only one who had avoided outright death. Without words she threatened him, demanded and dictated his next actions. He scrambled towards the computers, exposed wires flickering with the overhead lights. Cables and tubes that had been severed with her borrowed voice lay useless on damp cement. With a look he gave up his white coat to the red headed child, removed the electronic tentacles still attached to her slight body.

She would not name the Girl, the separation between memory and body became more pronounced that way and she wanted this power to last. Until she herself was free the child would remain that, a wounded girl Unnamed. Her debt was paid, her knight freed, her new powers secured for a few minutes more. She turned to leave when echoes of periwinkle touched her body, the girl was moving across the room, following her on bare feet through the liquid and carnage.

"There… there are others." It was hesitant, a voice from behind with a lilt and tone she might have mistaken as her own. "You could rescue them. L-like me."

_Rescue_…

Stopping to glare at the empty door she tried to control the sudden rage within. Her only goal at the moment was to take Stryker's head, she was rescuing nobody. A dept paid and now the girl believed her to be, what, some type of gallivanting hero? She had little interest in saving lives. Oh no. She wanted to take them.

When the air shifted behind her and the girl drew closer she could almost sense the heat of a small hand moving towards her own. Foolish little lamb. In a fraction of a second she debated, to allow the deadly touch would ensure the borrowed power hers far longer than the transfer earlier would… She had freed the pawn, the knight, and her responsibilities to the child were no more.

But the child was right, there had been more taken. From a large place, a collection of mutants. She could remember the fear of being thrown in a cell with several others, could remember being dragged towards the white room and its large green tubes. She could find her way back, and if the alarm had sounded they would be heading here, to this room. If she could sneak past and free them… chaos.

It wasn't something she had thought to include when envisioning her escape, but it was unlikely to impede her plans greatly. No, if anything her movements within this base would be easier to slip by the soldiers if they were in a state of panic, if they were worried about more than a lone mutant.

She would leave the girl with the others and continue on her own to hunt like the monster they had made her.

Decision made she moved, turning on the balls of her feet like the practiced soldier she had tangled with before being placed in the liquid cage, and stalked back towards the quiet scientist quaking with orange. He backed away, but it did no good. Skin touched skin for but a moment, just long enough to accesses surface images and thoughts before allowing the body to collapse without a care for his health. The impressions were fleeting, jumbled. He was praying to his god to save him from the mutant, the she-demon before him; there was an echo, the pressure of keys under his fingers as he tripped a silent alarm forgotten in the chaos of the Absorber's escape. Numbers and sequences. The codes she had sought. Everything else was pushed aside, quieted by an anger she focused on to keep what control she currently held.

Turning back to the girl with narrowed eyes she waited until the meaning was clear and when the girl stepped away with more horror on her face than trust she knew it to be a message taken to heart. When she slipped out of the room Girl followed, head bowed and close. But not touching. No. Never touching.

They had treated her like a dangerous animal; it was time to live up to their expectations.

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ETA: updated 14/12/08.


	5. Meanwhile

**Disclaimer: **I waver any rights to the X-Man universe, Marvel, or the characters found therein.

**Note:** written for the LiveJournal community 100(underscore)situations; prompt 043-Work. 300 words.

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Meanwhile

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It was disgustingly easy to bypass security; a smile here, a nod there, stolen card swiped every now and then. It was almost disappointing really, she could do with a spot of violence. Despicable _homo sapiens_. May they enjoy their watery grave.

A group of soldiers marched by paying no attention to the lone scientist leisurely walking down the corridor. It was hardly an unusual sight, she knew. And when her body brushed against the wall, a graceful maneuver her borrowed form would never perform, rough worn masculine hands touched the underside of an exposed pipeline. Eyes forward and a nod to yet another team of men patrolling she continued down her path of halogen lights and concrete walls, Semtex well and truly hidden.

Rounded tunnels and support beams, walls all granite gray, a complicated matrix created mostly for function but easy enough to become lost in without a guide. The information pulled from an unwilling source lead her easily past security checks and guard posts. The control room, stupidly housing a nexus of super computers charged with in-house communications and surveillance, gave her entry. Three technicians busily at work greeted her with a simple glance before once more hunching over keyboards, their eyes going back to the screen wall receiving live feed. Death came quick, only anticipated by the third as hands gripped and twisted. They should be grateful.

Years of careful research were carefully transferred from computer to disk as she delved deeper into encrypted files and coded messages. Fingers paused in their quick movement when an alarm box appeared in the document's center.

Glancing up she directed several cameras to the room indicated, a cold smile curled thin lips and eyes flash yellow in satisfaction. Yes, perhaps it was time to claim the child after all.


	6. Idle

**Disclaimer: **I waver any rights to the X-Men universe, Marvel, or the characters found therein.

**Note:** For some reason St. John's character has been influenced by Spike (BtVS/A:tS) despite the fact I know he's Australian, rating jump according to the character's persistence in cursing and half-hearted lewdness. Written for the LiveJournal community 100(underscore)situations; prompt 062-Appear. 805 words.

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**Idle**

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Okay, so not the best outcome but honestly, how could they expect him to stand by when those tripped-out masked bastards invaded his _home_? And yeah, it was a school, but he lived there, ate there, even had a mate he thought had his back. Until Ice Man turned into Slush Boy and rounded back to trail the other 'students'. Any one of those mutants, outcasts in _civilized_ society, would have been worth ten of any soldier. Granted, they didn't exactly have the element of surprise and there were some barely over the age of snot-nosed… But hell! Bobby could have at least stayed to fight, right? Yeah. Yeah, he could have. Did he? No, of course not. He'd been lead around the X-Tot Spread in a disgusting lovesick state ever since Kit, who would have been a dab hand at pick pocketing or general thievery but instead turned her uppity nose sky high when he himself ever suggested it, set her sights on his mate. Lead him around by the balls. Quite a painful sight, funny as hell some days and the control she took might have been impressive, but a disgrace all the same.

They should have both been here, trapped in this blasted cell with the unlucky. Fire and ice. They were a team, dammit. Even Kit would have been useful, but no she had to act all morally responsible and dash off to heard kids who should know from the emergency fire drills -and yeah, like he ever believed _that_- where to go and who to look for. Bobby just had to follow. Some mate he turned out to be; left him in the darkened corridor with nothing but an exasperated look that doubled as an apology. Well fuck that. There were bloody commandos and they weren't getting _him_.

Yeah, well…

One of the Youngers shifted closer and he managed not to grumble too much about the snot on his jeans at the contact. If he had his lighter and a bit of time he might have been able to melt the steel door or key pad. The only reason he hadn't made for one of his hidden matchbooks was the worrisome thought about the sealed room and proper ventilation. Fingers twitched with inaction and the sneer on his face weakened as he looked down. The kid, shoved at Xavier's before her sixth birthday, had her orange face completely hidden by his knee and let out an alarming sound. The other four Youngers responded and the whole lot of them started to cry again.

Great. What was he going to do with five kids against a bloody army? How was he supposed to get out of here with them? Bobby'd know how to talk 'em out of that idiotic sobbing. Wanker.

He was never having kids.

And just when he thought he might have to give up his sentinel-like position glairing at the door to sit down and _cuddle,_ it opened. It would have been a rather interesting sight too, a barefooted drenched soldier looking like she came right out of one of those programs that had Summer frowning and Logan smirking. Should have been… Might be yet actually, as he wasn't one to push away an interesting plot twist introducing wet, sexy girls in what he still half hopes is a dream, but then there was the gun. A gun and a homicidal look he might have recognized from the bathroom mirror on the particularly bad news days.

Well fine, he was up for a fight. All this inaction was killing him anyway, and if those bastards were foolish enough to only send a soldier-gone-wild with a pea-shooter all the better for him. With a grin and cockily voiced 'bring it' he reached for a match already moved to his sleeve, thumb gleefully dragging across the head; friction, sulpher, malleable heat. Fire.

A midget with red hair and green eyes jumped in front of the soldier and he barely had time to curve the flame around the two. Brat. What did she think she was doing?

"St. John- she's one of us. She's here to rescue us! Come on." The girl Cassidy, he remembers only because accents aren't diverse in the X-Mansion, waves to the no longer crying Youngers and smiles. _Smiles_. This situation was messed up on a variety of levels. She was acting as if Logan went Wolvereen on their captor's asses.

Absently his fingers trailed over the opened matchbook as he looked at soldier once more. "Muttie, hn?" He didn't get a reaction. Fine, if that's the way this was going to play out. "Well, no sense hanging out in the dungeon kiddies, lets go."

"Go where?"

"I wanna go 'ome."

"Come on, the other's are just out side. You're the last."

_Others?_ Well, that sounded promising.


End file.
